


Decisions

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Guns, Injury, Pain, Religious Content, Revenge, Siblings, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor still hasn't had time to wrap his head around it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decisions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mjules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjules/gifts).



> Written as an extra Yuletide treat for Mjules.
> 
> Written for mjules.

Connor still hasn't had time to wrap his head around it all. His body is still hurting, the cuts and burns itching and aching, and his head hurts from trying to figure out where to go from here. He thought they had it sorted out, and he was ready to storm off and take his revenge on Yakavetta, kill the son of a bitch slowly and cruelly, make him pay for everything. All that changed, and changed so fast he didn't have a chance to affect the outcome in any way.

Of course, in the end the balance never really shifted. Something was taken away, but the space was immediately filled. Exit Rocco stage left, enter Il Duce stage right.

Il Duce--he can't bring himself to say 'Da' yet--swooped in like some avenging angel. Like a guardian angel with a cigar clamped between his teeth and with half a fortune in firearms strapped to him. He stepped into the basement and into their lives without asking, reclaiming his sons. Took their hands and sighted along them, ran his thumbs over the tattoos, over the indelible letters shaping truth and justice and nodded his approval.

-*-

Walking out of the house was like walking through frozen time. There was no sound, only the thick cloying smell of coppery blood, and nothing stirred as they passed.

A woman was sprawled at the feet of a corpse in a chair, but as they passed, Connor could see the sharp features under the thick blond hair. Not a woman. Agent Smecker. He opened his mouth, intending to voice some confused litany, but a single glance from Il Duce silenced him. When he looked again, he saw the broad back rise and fall.

He decided he wouldn't ask.

-*-

It's been a week now.

He's still not used to suddenly having a father. Murphy has taken to him, but in an oddly silent and reserved way. He's still Il Duce rather than Da to both of them. There is something dangerous about him, but he also fits into their lives with alarming ease, so easily Connor wants to halt it. He's been father and brother and guardian to Murphy so long that he's unwilling to relinquish even a part of it.

But just because he loves every stupid reckless bone in Murphy's body, it doesn't mean they don't get on each other's nerves. Cabin fever sets in while they hide and plot, and they squabble endlessly, pushing each other. They're like two souls fighting over one body, kicking and slapping and punching, but they don't really hurt each other.

Connor can't stand actually hurting Murphy, and doesn't want to think about the time he was forced to do so.

-*-

There had been blood everywhere in tiny kitchen, and they had been blood-spattered, striped and freckled with gore. Skin and flesh had sizzled under the hot iron and the stench of boiling blood had crept into his nostrils and down his throat. Blood everywhere. You'd have thought that after packing meat day after day, after having blood up to his elbows, he would have been immune to the sight of blood, but he wasn't. Not to the sight of the blood of those he cared about. He'd had to bite back on a scream of his own as he pressed the red-hot metal to the gash on Murphy's arm, because it was as if phantom pain had screamed through him.

What they said about twins sharing pain was true.

He dug his fingers into Murphy's neck, held on for dear life as the wound on his leg got seared shut. Murphy's heart was beating so fast, too fast, against his back, in time with his own heart which felt like it would come loose any second and explode in a starburst of blood.

He really doesn't want to think about it.

-*-

Saint Connor and Saint Murphy. They don't even have namesakes to fall back on. Da (how slowly the word comes) is still an enigma, nameless but no longer faceless. When the dark glasses come off and they see his eyes, there is a shock of recognition, a spike of memory clear up through all the white noise in their minds. Blood does call to blood.

-*-

It's time to ask difficult questions now.

Connor slides his arm around Murphy's shoulders, holds on to him to make sure that at least one constant is present.

 _I am my brother's keeper._

Murphy hooks two of his fingers into the belt loops of Connor's jeans, completing the circle. The two of them against one. He shakes his head like he was trying to get rid of an irritating tic. Them. When he's tired enough, he always mentally refers to "them" and "they". He's not singular, it's always the plural, him and Murphy. Most other people do the same.

"How far are we going to take this, Da?" The last word doesn't want to leave his mouth, seems to stick in his teeth, unfamiliar after long disuse.

"The question is not how far. The question is, do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far as is needed?" The voice curls into his brain, keen like steel and ice. The gaze is as keen, and Connor looks away, seeking out Murphy's gaze instead. What he sees there is what he feels as well.

There is an entirely superfluous nod, one to confirm a decision that took no time to make. They turn as one, and nod again, as one, before replying with shared voice.

"Yes."

_So we shall flow a river forth to thee..._


End file.
